I’m still feeling content from my weekend in Chicago.  It was one of those delightful weekends in which everything works out as planned.  Everyone enjoys each others company.  The hangovers are manageable.  The food delicious.  All of a sudden you’re having so much fun you drunkenly agree to move back if you don’t have a new job by Christmas.

My brothers and I spent an evening on the patio of a bar I once frequented.  A bar I realized, while paying my tab, I’d started patronizing 7 years ago (don’t do the math– it wasn’t entirely legal).  The bar is mostly the same, save for the bartenders recognizing my little brothers before they recognize me.  The EL train still spits water onto the patio when it goes by every couple of minutes and the noise forces for a pause in conversation.  I’m still only charged for a fraction of what I drink.

I insisted my brothers to pose for a photograph.  The man drinking next to us, a dentist who graduated undergrad the same year I did, the photographer.  “You’re a beautiful family,” he said.  Slurring his words slightly, while smoking  a bummed cigarette.  We smiled.  We tend to think so too.



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